


The Price of Obsession

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brother Feels, Dean used as bait, Gen, Guilt, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, post-demon possesion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7657144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder <em>why</em> Bobby ran John off with a shotgun?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N-I am a VERY BAD GIRL. I forgot to thank my lovely lady Linden for her contribution to this little piece because in her awesome story [Darkness While I'm Dreaming](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2191887?view_full_work=true) her Sammy was in love with pecan pancakes with peanut butter from the Waffle House, and so that became my headcannon, and while my Sam preferred banana pecan in this incarnation, we all still know what I was thinking of ;)

_'You don't deserve those boys. Neither of 'em. But you especially don't deserve his blind fuckin' loyalty. He_ loves _you, John. God knows why, but you have to be careful with a thing like that, and you aren't, and you don't deserve it!' Bobby cocked the shotgun, notching it to his shoulder, but kept the barrel down. 'Now. Next time you darken my door, you better be dyin', John Winchester.'_

_~_

Sioux Falls was three hours behind them, and Dean was still slumped, pale and a little clammy in the shotgun seat, silent and staring forward without seeing anything outside the windshield. Sammy was bundled in John's heavy leather in the corner of the backseat on Dean's side, eyes wide and round and afraid every time John glanced in the rearview.

'He's okay now, Sammy,' John said, as gentle as he could manage. 'I promise.'

He'd probably told the kid that ten times over the last two hundred and fifty miles, but it wasn't going to make a lick of difference until Dean told him himself, and as yet, his eldest hadn't roused himself to speak a single word. Not even to Sam. John could understand if Dean didn't speak to _him_ for a while, a good long while if he were honest, but it was proof of the damage done that he wouldn't even crack for Sam. 

~

_'_ _Goddamnit, John. What the_ hell _do you think you're doin'?' Bobby cussed at him when John knelt inside the Devil's Trap and gave Dean a small shake and then a harder one to bring him around._

_'I got a pack of werewolves in Tennessee needs killing before another full moon is gone,' John said, extending his arm to give Dean a good flat handed slap._

_But Bobby plucked it out of the air and threw John's wrist away so hard it sent the bigger man off balance and nearly landed him on his ass in the floor. 'That boy needs rest. A chance to heal himself!' Bobby snapped. 'You can't just drag him outa here after something like this and expect him to be in fighting condition.'_

_'I need him on this job, Bobby,' John said darkly, standing to brush the dust off of himself. He reached for Dean and the next thing he knew Bobby's sawed-off was two inches from his chin._

_'You leave the boy here. Leave 'em both. Call somebody else to help you. I'll take care of 'em 'till you get back.'_

_~_

It was at that point Dean had stumbled to his feet, shoved the barrel of Bobby's gun aside and shouldered past them both to go throw up in the kitchen sink. Then, without a word, he’d pushed out the back screen door and gone straight to the car. 

John had felt a mixed bag of pride and guilt in that moment. He'd trained his son to push past the pain, to get the job done, and move on; but at the same time no seventeen year old boy should have to just shake off being worn by a demon. 

 

*** 

 

John stopped at a Flying J off the highway that was still bustling at ten-thirty at night. Dean made no move to get out of the car, was so still and utterly disinterested in what was going on around them that John would have thought he was asleep except that his eyes were open, wide, like when a body was fighting sleep—a situation with which both he and John were well acquainted. He eyed his eldest worriedly for a moment, then leaned in the back window and shook Sam awake. 

‘Hey, you want to go get us some road food?’

Sam knuckled at his eyes and shrugged out from under John’s jacket. He glanced at the back of his brother’s head before looking back to John and nodding slowly. John dug for his wallet, then looked through the opposite window and saw the glowing Waffle House sign across the lot. He tried on a rusty smile. 

‘Better yet, Sammy, how ‘bout some waffles?’

Sam swiveled in the seat, saw the sign, and his eyes lit up. He nodded vigorously. 

‘Okay. Get your shoes on.’

John finished filling the tank and went in to pay, fully expecting Sam to have dragged Dean from the car and been waiting impatiently at the door to the restaurant as his most recent favorite thing had become banana-pecan Belgium waffles. But both boys were still in the car, Sam tucked back in the corner watching the back of his brother’s head warily, almost fearfully, Dean still staring listlessly out the window. John sank into the driver’s seat with a muted sigh and pulled the car up under the brightly lit sign. He got out and Sam scrambled to follow, grabbing Dean’s door and swinging it wide.

‘C’mon, Dean,’ John prompted when the boy didn't move. 

‘I'm not hungry.’

The words were cold and flat. Sam stepped backward, letting go of the door and unconsciously pressing himself up against his father’s side. John put an arm around him. Dean cut his eyes to the side, catching Sam’s unconscious move to safety and the still blossoming bruise across his left cheekbone and temple. Sam made a small sound in the back of this throat when he realized what he'd just done, and stepped forward, reaching for Dean, but Dean flinched back, whole body shrinking in with it, and Sam twitched back up against John’s side, hand going to hang onto the back of his father’s shirt. 

‘Dean, you need to eat,’ John commanded, and he reached in to grab the front of Dean’s coat. For a split second there was resistance, and John’s body went into high alert, every muscle tensing for battle, but Dean went slack under his grip and allowed himself to be manhandled out of the seat. 

Sam stayed tucked close to John as they went in and were led to a table at the window, and he slid into the booth on John’s side. Dean sat across from them both, eyes on his hands which were flat on the tabletop. He didn't respond to the waitress, nor did he open the menu. John ordered for the three of them. 

When their plates came, Dean ignored the heaping pile of biscuits  and gravy in front of him, while Sam tucked into his waffles, still keeping an eye on his brother, and John made his way through a deluxe omelet and four cups of black coffee. When Sam had nearly licked his plate clean and it became apparent that Dean wasn't going to touch his food, Sam reached across slowly and forked up a mouthful of biscuit and gravy and held it out toward Dean patiently. 

For the first time all night, Dean lifted his gaze to Sam’s face to meet his eyes for only a moment before focusing on the forkful of food like he was trying to decide if it was poisoned or not. Very slowly, he leaned far enough forward to take the bite off the fork. Sam’s face was awash in relief, but he studiously forked up another bite and this time held the utensil out for Dean to take hold of. Dean did, with the kind of caution a wild animal might approach a person offering food as a lure. John was almost surprised when he didn't snatch the fork out of Sam’s hand but only carefully took it without touching his brother’s skin in any way. Sam made another one of those hurt little sounds in the bottom of his throat but settled back to watch Dean eat from under his long, dark lashes. 

Dean concentrated on his plate and ate steadily until it was nearly all gone before he pushed it away. Sam seemed satisfied with this and cautioned a small smile that Dean did not return. John sighed. At least the boy had eaten. That was something. 

‘Why don't you boys use the restroom while I pay the bill, and then we'll get back on the road,’ 

Dean got up and made his way to the back of the restaurant and Sam reluctantly followed, casting a glance back over his shoulder at John. John waved him on. 

‘He's okay, Sam. Trust me,’ he said quietly, and Sam turned and went. 

Back at the car, John was about to suggest they both stretch out in the back and get some shut eye, but Dean slid into shotgun before he could open his mouth. Sam climbed into the back and curled up in his customary corner and John pulled out onto the highway five minutes later. 

Sam was asleep before they got twenty miles down the road, and Dean had sunk back inside himself, eyes open and unblinking, taking in the dark outside his window. John knew there were things he needed to say. There was probably, or should be, an apology of some kind among them; but he didn't know where or how to start, or if Dean would even listen, so he reached out and turned the radio on low and kept driving. 

~

_‘Bobby!’ John yelled as he wrangled Dean out of the seat, trying to take care not to hurt him at the same time he body-checked him against the car when he tried to twist out of John’s grip and take a bite out of his throat. ‘Bobby, get the hell out here!’_

_‘John, are you outta you're damn mind yelling like that at two in the damn morning!’ Bobby shouted as he banged out the screen door. ‘Now, what in the name of—?’_

_Dean lunged forward, jerking hard against the cuffs John had a hold of, hissing and spitting. Bobby froze on the last step._

_‘What the hell happened?’_

_‘He's possessed, Bobby,’ John panted, getting a better grip on his son’s shoulders before he could try and tear a hole in Bobby, too. ‘I need your help with…’_

_‘Yeah. Yeah, sure. Of course. Bring him in,’ Bobby reached to help restrain Dean as he thrashed anew. ‘But…how did this happen, John?’_

_John didn't answer and didn't look at him. Bobby stared, stricken._

_‘John Winchester, you did not…’_

_‘Just help me get him inside!’ John bit out. ‘Sammy, you stay in the car,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘No matter what, you understand?’_

_He didn't wait for an answer, and he and Bobby pushed, shoved, and dragged Dean up the stairs and into the house._

_~_

There were lines that Hunters didn't cross. Lines that existed for their safety and their sanity, but there weren't many out there who had the kind of reasons John did to do the kinds of things he did. Everyone had their reasons for getting into it, their story, and not a one could be discounted less tragic than another. John, though, had reason to believe the evil that touched his family was rooted deeper than just monsters in the shadows. The evil that had walked his house, tainted his son, murdered his wife, had been acting out of something more malevolent than just instinct or random violence. 

He didn't have proof, and Bobby had called him crazy on more than one occasion in the past. Other hunters, too. Bill Harvelle. Ellen. He should have learned from them just how close was too close. They'd tried to warn him. He'd listened, but obsession won out in the end. He was no fool. He could acknowledge it for what it was; for the things that it took.

~ 

_‘Christ, John.’ Bobby thrust a shot of whiskey at him, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Is Sam all right?’_

_‘He’s shaken. Scared. He rode the whole way here practically crouched in the damn footwell.’_

_‘Can you blame him?’ Bobby asked, incredulous._

_John shook his head, slugged back the whiskey. ‘No. Dean…he tried to…before I could get a good hold on him, and Sam tried to distract him, and…’_

_Bobby slugged back his own shot and glowered at the younger man. ‘John Winchester, you are an_ ass.’ _John didn't answer to that, and Bobby took the shot glass out of his hand. ‘Let’s go get this done.’_

 

 ***

 

They reached Wilton, Tennessee around mid morning. Dean was still awake, and Sam was in the back pretending to be asleep. John pulled into the first hotel they came across at the edge of town and got a room for five nights. Once this hunt was done, Dean needed at least a couple good nights rest. John just hoped the situation would be such that they could hang around afterward. He moved the car and tossed the keys over the seat to Sam. 

‘Why don't you take a load of our stuff in, Sammy? I need to talk to Dean for a minute.’

Despite his residual wariness of his brother, Sam was reluctant to let him out of his sight, but he did follow John’s instruction after a moment’s hesitation and scooted out of the car, taking a duffle over each shoulder. When the room door clicked shut, John turned in the seat to Dean. 

‘Son,’ he started, voice gruff with nerves. ‘I understand if you don't want to talk to me. Hell, I don't blame you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't see another way to do it, but you've got to talk to your brother, Dean. He's not to blame in any of this, and after what happened, he's a little afraid of—’

‘He's fucking terrified of me, Dad.’ 

It was the most reaction John had seen out of his eldest in nearly thirty-six hours. A tight knot he hadn't even noticed until now loosened in his gut with relief. ‘Dean, he's understandably a little nervous—’

‘I threw him into a goddamn wall!’ Dean shouted. 

‘You remember that?’ John's stomach clenched anew. 

‘Yeah. I remember,’ Dean said, voice hard and angry. ‘I remember everything.’

‘Fuck,’ John bit out. He didn't swear often, not like that anyway, but it slipped out before he thought. ‘Dean, you weren't in control. You weren't responsible for any of what happened—’

‘Yeah.’ Dean finally turned in the seat to look at him, and John thought the shine of demon black may have been preferable to the accusation in his son’s eyes right now. ‘I know that, too.’

Dean got out of the car and stood staring at the door to the room Sam had just gone in a few minutes ago, then he turned on his heel and headed out toward the edge of the parking lot and a scraggly looking excuse for a thicket of trees with his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his coat. 

John stared after him, chest constricted around his last breath, and thought about the price of obsession and just how much more it might cost him before he was through.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam was sitting in the middle of the bed furthest from the door—the one that would be his by default because both John and Dean made themselves feel better at night by keeping him a few seconds further from death if it came knocking—with his knees drawn up under his chin, eyes glued to the door, when Dean finally came back. The sun had gone down an hour ago, and despite Sam’s tentative suggestions, John had decided not to go looking for his other son and instead headed to the morgue and the county appraisers office across town to see if he could find any likely out of the way pieces of property where the pack may be holed up. Sam had considered going in search of his brother on his own but knew he would only incite panic that would quickly become rage if either his father or his brother came back to find him gone. Despite what John thought, Sam really did think before he acted, he just very often consciously chose to act in a way John didn't like.  

Dean came in with his cheeks chapped red from the chill autumn evening and his lower lip swollen and almost bloody like he'd been tearing at it with his teeth. His eyes were red-rimmed and dry from the wind, but Sam thought a good many tears were probably responsible, too. He glanced at Sam, but his gaze slid away, guilty and quick, like water on glass, and he went to the opposite bed and sat down facing the window with his back to Sam. It was about as far away as he could get and still be in the same room and it put at least one piece of furniture between them. Sam knew what his brother was doing, and it made him feel guilty for the relief that it brought, and made his heart hurt for the weighted bow it put across Dean’s shoulders as he sat there slouched on the side of the bed slowly unlacing his boots. Sam knew if he waited, Dean would only undress in silence, maybe shower, and then crawl under the covers without saying a word. If he waited, the rift he had unintentionally opened up was going to grow wider, and Dean was going to throw himself off the edge of it at some point into a pit of guilty self-recrimination because that was something at which he excelled. 

Sam unfolded and walked across the bed on his knees, padded across the tiny open space of carpet between the beds on silent feet, and then slowly knelt at Dean’s back. 

‘Dean?’

Dean’s back went stiff, muscles taut beneath the flannel fabric of his shirt, and he froze in tugging at the laces of his last boot. ‘Sammy, don't…’

His voice was wrecked, broken, made hoarse by the cold wind outside and the knot of emotion lodged in his throat. Sam inched forward until he could press his palms flat against Dean’s shoulder blades and spread his fingers wide, absently rubbing the pads of his thumbs up and down along a few inches either side of his spine. He leaned forward and pressed his bruised cheek against the back of Dean’s neck. He felt his brother’s shoulders start to tremble and shake beneath his hands. 

‘I'm sorry, Dean.’

‘What the hell have you got to be sorry for?’ The words came out harsh, but Sam knew he didn't mean it, and he ignored the cruel tone. 

‘I'm sorry you had to go through that,’ Sam said. ‘I'm sorry Dad thought it was okay to do what he did.’

Dean trembled harder, hunched forward around a sob trying to punch its way out of him, and Sam reached around him then to help him hold it in. ‘How do you— How do you know about that?’

Sam pressed his face closer, into the curve of his brother’s neck. ‘I've got two eyes, Dean. I could see what he was doing. I tried… I tried to—’

‘I know.’ Dean folded his hands around Sam’s and squeezed tight. ‘I…remember.’

‘Oh god.’ Sam buried his face and spread himself against Dean’s back, banishing every fraction of space between them. ‘No. Nonono…I-I'm so sorry, Dean.’

‘Don't you be sorry,’ Dean whispered fiercely. ‘Don't you dare be sorry for what you did.’

‘But, Dean, if I hadn't—’

Dean twisted around, yanking Sam in hard and fast and holding him so tight Sam swore he felt his ribs creak under the pressure. ‘You tried to save me, Sammy. I heard you callin’.’ He pressed his lips against Sam’s bruised temple and then buried his face in the soft, dark tangle of his hair. ‘I heard you.’

‘Dean…’

‘Don't be afraid of me, Sammy,’ Dean begged. ‘Please, don't you be afraid of me.’

Sam fisted Dean’s shirt in his hands and clung. ‘I'm not. I'm not. I'm not afraid, Dean. I'll never be afraid.’

Dean wanted to take the words for the truth Sam meant them to be, but he’d seen the hesitation in his little brother’s eyes, and he remembered the stark terror under the brash bravery as Sam had tried to appeal to whatever part of Dean might be conscious under the demon’s thrall. He remembered most vividly the hurt in Sam’s face when he didn't have the strength to answer that call to fight and the demon had tossed Sam like so much chaff in the wind into a concrete and brick wall. 

Sam meant what he said, Dean didn't doubt that, but the memory was there now, and nothing could expunge it from his mind. It was an image that would haunt both their nightmares for weeks, maybe months, to come; and Dean would always know that his soul was marked by darkness now, damaged in a way nothing could heal, not even time.  

He leaned sideways, stretching out on the bed, taking Sam down with him. Sam ended up wound around him, legs thrown over his thighs as Dean curled his body into a cradle like he had done years and years ago when Sam was too small to be sleeping in a regular bed.

It was just an illusion, the comfort it brought. Because Dean had become the danger now, and he didn't know how to protect against himself.


End file.
